


the shape of dawn

by leaveanote



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Communication on Both Sides, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fix-It, Forest Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen, Love Confessions, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Sex, Trust and Healing, if that doesn't work in canon please forgive me it is just for the sake of the porn, just a bit of it, light comeplay, lots of sex and lots of softness, messy sex, very brief mentions of mild injury/canon-typical violence but he's essentially already healing, well...the nearby woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: When Jaskier needs rescuing from a monster outside Kaer Morhen, certain buried truths come to light.***But then Geralt looks at him, and Jaskier starts. This close, he can see something else in those goldmelt eyes. They’re too bright, brimming with an emotion that’s not just irritation and selfish surliness. That’s—but—but it can’t be. Jaskier pushes down that line of thinking too, swallows it into that pit in his chest. A muscle in Geralt’s jaw works. And then, as if he’s shoveling the words up from deep within him, Geralt speaks.“I can’t lose you again.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 763





	the shape of dawn

“Jaskier. _Jaskier!”_

Jaskier is waking up. But he’s not in a bed, or on his bedroll, even though it does feel like he’s outdoors, judging from the soft, grassy ground beneath him and what must be the sun above. That doesn’t make sense though. He’s staying in Kaer Morhen now, has been for the past few months, and his bed is definitely _inside._ And he doesn’t usually wake up hurting all over, especially around his arms. 

“Jask—fuck, _fuck,_ come on—”

Mm, he knows that voice. Knows it better than nearly anything. That’s good. Geralt’s here, and—

_“Ouch!”_

Jaskier wrenches his eyes open just in time to see Geralt sitting back on his heels with a huff, having just presumably punched Jaskier in the chest. The witcher lets out a colorful string of swears and glowers at him.

“What was that for?” Jaskier asks, rubbing his sternum. His voice is hoarse and he aches all over, but it’s dulling already. He can taste herbs on his lips and spots an empty bottle next to Geralt’s palm, realizes he’s been given a healing potion. “Whoa. What _happened_ to me?”

“Had to make sure you were breathing. You were abducted,” Geralt growls, gathering up the bottle and his swords, which he seems to have flung to the side. “By what appears to be a cockatrice, which has no business being this far from a cave system.”

“Shit,” Jaskier comments. He stretches. He’s already feeling nearly back to normal, his memory piecing itself back together. “I do remember an enormous shadow, and then—fuck, yeah, a lot of pain my arms—”

“Those were the talons.” 

“And then...nothing. I—oi!” 

Geralt’s seized him by the shoulders, and then his heavy hands are all over Jaskier’s body, his chest, his thighs, his back. That’s not unusual, Geralt often checks him for broken bones after an attack. But then he leans in close, staring pointedly into Jaskier’s eyes, and Jaskier feels heat rise to his cheeks.

“Wh—what’re you doing?” 

“You blacked out.” Geralt’s goldmelt eyes peer carefully at him, and his nostrils flare, scenting. “Want to make sure you don’t have brain damage.” He lingers another moment. His breath is warm, and he smells like nothing but himself, sweat and herbs and his specific musk. Jaskier inhales deeply without realizing that’s what he’s doing, and then freezes, heart rabbiting in his chest, hoping Geralt didn’t notice, and doesn’t notice that either. He’s used to hiding that sort of thing, burying it in his core, even though Geralt clearly never _does_ notice. Hiding it isn’t even second nature, anymore, it’s just Jaskier’s _nature._ Especially since the mountain. Message bloody received. 

Geralt exhales, seemingly satisfied, and cuffs him on the back of the head. 

“You’re fine.” The corner of his mouth tugs up in a small smirk. “Not counting out the brain damage. But you’re fine.”

“Very funny,” Jaskier snaps, but that’s real relief in Geralt’s eyes, and something else Jaskier doesn’t know how to name. It almost seems like—but no, definitely not. Dangerous territory. Won’t go down that road. 

Except...except it hasn’t seemed quite as unpassable, of late. Not since Jaskier got here, not since Ciri. Geralt’s actually been...gentling, since he’s started Ciri’s training. She brings out something a little more patient in him, a little more understanding, a little less murder-y. His apology had even seemed genuine, not the repentant groveling Jaskier truly _deserved,_ but, well. It got Jaskier up here, anyway. 

Not that he hadn’t been looking for a reason. 

Jaskier waits for him to let go, to pull away, but Geralt’s brow furrows. He peers closer at Jaskier, leaning in.

“What?”

Geralt hesitates, a muscle in his jaw working. 

“I almost went hunting in the east,” he says slowly. “I nearly didn’t scent your trail, your panic...you. I—” Geralt looks down, shaking his head. When he looks up, his eyes are hard. The next words he speaks, he bites out, one by one. “Don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again.” 

Jaskier feels very hot all over very suddenly. 

“Hey, it’s not like I _asked_ to be attacked! I was only taking a walk to clear my head! It’s quite necessary for songwriting, you know, not that there isn’t a _certain_ poetry to your big sweaty stone fortresses, but it’s so lovely out here.” He gestures to the forest canopy. “At least, until that thing swooped down and tried to make me its dinner—you never told me I couldn’t walk in the woods—”

“Do I need to tell you to not get _eaten?”_ Geralt growls, but it’s not his usual growl. There’s something...fresh in it. Something volatile. Not quite the stern tone he adopts for Ciri’s training, but not the usual exasperated irritation he used to use with Jaskier. He seems to deflate slightly, burying his face in his big hands. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, tentatively. 

Geralt murmurs something inaudible, but just the tone of it makes something in Jaskier’s chest leap.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Geralt drags his hands away, and Jaskier’s mouth falls open at his expression. He looks... _desperate._ And a bit angry with himself, but that’s nothing new. Desperate, eyes shining, brows knit and lips parted.

And then he hitches his big scary witcher frown back up, and that desperation slides behind it so effectively Jaskier wonders if he’d imagined it.

“What if I hadn’t been out hunting? What if I _had_ gone east? What if she’d poisoned you before I got to her? You can’t be so irresponsible, Jaskier, it’s dangerous out here and it’s only going to get more so.” Geralt snaps his mouth shut with a click of his teeth. He starts to set off down the path, but Jaskier darts in front of him, palms up. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from almost getting eaten, maybe it’s just that he can’t take this anymore. The pit in his chest feels like it’s boiling.

“No, you know what? Why’re you so mad at _me?”_ Jaskier demands, his voice hot. “I’m sorry, did it _worry_ you, that I got attacked? How do you think _I_ feel, when you spend your _entire life_ fighting _monsters?_ You don’t think I’m terrified for _you?_ Every _single_ day, for decades, Geralt!” Geralt’s eyes blaze into him, but Jaskier can’t stop now. “What the fuck am I supposed to do if you get killed?”

Something strange flashes in Geralt’s eyes, and then his lip curls.

“Maybe you should figure that out.” 

Jaskier stares at him. The words wound like a dagger of ice in his gut. 

“Don’t you say that,” he hisses, hushed. “I don’t know why this has got you in such a mood, but don’t you say that.” Geralt looks away, tilts his gaze over Jaskier’s shoulder in his _ah, life is just killing and dying_ sort of expression. Jaskier moves to get back in his eyeline, waving his hands palm-up in front of him. _“No,_ Geralt. You’ve got a child to look after! You’ve got a _purpose,_ you’ve got—” 

_You’ve got me._

Nope, nope, better not let _that_ one out. Geralt doesn’t tend to react well to that line of thinking, obviously. Jaskier lets his hands fall to his sides.

But then Geralt looks at him, and Jaskier starts. This close, he can see something else in those goldmelt eyes. They’re too bright, brimming with an emotion that’s not just irritation and selfish surliness. _That’s_ — _but_ —but it can’t be. Jaskier pushes down that line of thinking too, swallows it into that pit in his chest. A muscle in Geralt’s jaw works. And then, as if he’s shoveling the words up from deep within him, Geralt speaks.

“I can’t lose you again.”

Jaskier blinks. Everything feels very cold, then very hot. Even his ears. Is that normal? That can’t be normal, is it normal? Is this some witcher spell? 

_“I can’t lose you again,”_ Geralt repeats, somehow sounding... _hurt?_ “You— _you’ve_ got a handful of witchers you could follow around for your inspiration now, all right? A castle full of deeds to spin into song and coin! But I’ve only got—I’ve—” Geralt’s gaze casts about wildly. “Never mind.”

Jaskier frowns, just hot now, hot all over, because _that’s_ not—

“What the fuck are you talking about? That’s not the _same,_ d’you think I’m only here because of—how could you—it’s been _decades!”_

Geralt looks downright miserable. 

“ _You_ pushed me away—more times than I can count, Geralt—” Jaskier starts, very aware that his voice has gone very high. Higher than it’s ever gone, which is ridiculous, because he’s been in all sorts of high-pitched-voice situations, both life-threatening and love-declaring (which this decidedly can _not_ be), and he’s always remained _entirely_ in control.

But this, this is different.

“I know!” It’s a snarl, but there’s an edge of pain to it, of desperation, and Jaskier’s entire face feels bright pink. Geralt’s brows furrow. “I’ve been...I know. I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath. Jaskier watches his chest move, the hungry pool in his own core swirling, churning. “I don’t know how to do this. I never have. You’re mortal.”

“So are you!”

“You’re _human.”_ Geralt says, something like determination in his voice now. “And now that I’ve got you back I just want to keep you for as long as you want to stay.”

It’s a wonder Jaskier can hear him, with his heart hammering in his chest like it is.

“I want to stay.”

“You do?”

“Of _course_ I do, I couldn’t possibly have _been_ more obvious!”

Geralt’s face is, for once, entirely unreadable.

“And—and. Not...just for my stories?” he asks, his voice raspy with what Jaskier recognizes as hope, and something in Jaskier breaks like a levee. 

“Oh—Geralt—no, no, for _you—”_

And then Geralt’s kissing him.

He’s kissing him, and kissing him, and it takes Jaskier’s brain perhaps a full minute to catch up with his body, so he stands _very_ stupidly shock-still while Geralt kisses him more gently than he ever, in his wildest, most secret dreams, imagined—and so Geralt stops before Jaskier figures out he’s supposed to be kissing back. 

“Fuck.” Geralt looks at him in horror, his heavy hands still cupping Jaskier’s face. _“Fuck._ I’m sorry—” but Jaskier’s shaking his head, and he realizes how badly Geralt needs to hear his next words, so he says them very, very clearly.

“I’m not.”

He grabs Geralt by the shirt and finally, _finally_ kisses him back. 

Jaskier’s tentative to start, unsure of how much to give or to take, if Geralt wants his tongue in his mouth or his hands in his hair, suddenly insecure about his own talents for the first time since his first kiss when he was a boy. It’s never seemed to _matter_ so much. But he still feels like Geralt could jerk back at any minute, storm away and act like it never happened. Jaskier tries to memorize it, just in case: Geralt’s strong hands on his waist, Geralt’s hot breath on his cheek, Geralt’s surprisingly soft mouth, parting his. 

The woods are lush with the shifting start of spring. The air is heavy with the scent of many long-buried things, awakening to life. 

Jaskier doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to _stop,_ to break the spell. 

He doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

He should take what he’s given and appreciate it. If he pushes, he might lose everything.

But then Geralt deepens the kiss hungrily, growling into it, and Jaskier’s knees go weak. 

“Geralt,” he says softly. Geralt pulls away, but only just. His golden eyes are half-lidded. His hands lift their weight slightly from Jaskier’s hips, but he doesn’t let go. “I don’t want to stop, but I have to know. I—I can’t go on, not knowing.” Jaskier tilts his chin to look at him. “What is this?” 

Geralt’s expression shifts. Minutely, but Jaskier knows him well enough to watch it happen: he closes off, shuts down, and Jaskier’s heart sinks—but maybe Geralt’s watching Jaskier’s face too, because ever so slightly, he softens. And then he takes several deep breaths, and softens more, as if resigning himself to something and steadying himself for a blow.

“I know you deserve better than me,” Geralt murmurs, his voice rough. “But. I’m trying. And I’ll try harder.” His fingers tighten on Jaskier’s waist, and Jaskier nearly shouts with frustrated anticipation, but for once, bites it back. He needs to hear this. He needs— “I love you.” 

Jaskier’s eyes widen. He feels so much _lighter,_ suddenly, like an enormous weight was lifted. He nearly actually stumbles, but Geralt holds him up. 

“What was that?” he says in a rush. Geralt huffs at him through his nose, but something about him seems lighter, too.

“I love you. Don’t, uh. Don’t really know how to. But. I do.” The corner of his mouth jerks into a slight but earnest rare grin, and Jaskier’s kissing it before he even gets a good look.

“You’re going to learn,” Jaskier says breathlessly. 

“I know,” Geralt promises, his voice rough and low. “I will.” He cups the back of Jaskier’s head then, and dips him into a fucking _swoon_ of a kiss, and Jaskier’s entire body sings in relief and joy.

Well, not his entire body. Not his mouth. It would, but it’s occupied. Later, definitely later, he’ll get _lots_ of good songs out of this. But for once, it doesn’t seem that pressing. Not when there’s the present to savor, when Geralt’s thick fingers knead at his hips and he moves his mouth to Jaskier’s throat, and oh, _oh—_

Geralt pulls back abruptly. He looks Jaskier in the eye, his hair delightfully distressed from where Jaskier’s hand has been tugging on it. 

“Wait. This means. I mean, you _do—”_

Jaskier rolls his eyes and groans. 

“Yes, you _arsehole._ I love you, too.”

Geralt _smiles._ Oh, Melitele alive, does he ever. Not his self-satisfied smile when he’s just got off a good insult, or a shit-eating smirk, no. This is _soft,_ and _fond,_ and—and not altogether unfamiliar. It’s the one Jaskier catches on his face, when Geralt doesn’t hide it in time.

Fuck, he does, he really, really does.

Geralt smiles at him and doesn’t stop, his thumb almost unconsciously coming to pet Jaskier’s cheek.

And Jaskier is suddenly on fucking _fire._

He seizes Geralt back into the kiss, crushing their mouths together, all hope of finesse vanished in the wake of desperate, long, _long-_ buried want. Geralt gives a muffled sound of surprise, which is _thoroughly_ satisfying, and then it tapers into a low growl of desire as he kisses Jaskier back just as hard, one hand coming to pull at Jaskier’s hair and the other to grab at his arse, which is _very much more satisfying._

“Now,” Jaskier gasps, fumbling for Geralt’s laces. “Right. Now.”

Geralt grins somewhat breathlessly, quirks an eyebrow in a way that really should not be as arousing as it is. He jerks his chin, seemingly unwilling to move his hands from Jaskier’s body.

“...here?”

 _“Yes_ fucking _here,_ you want me to wait until we walk an hour back to the castle and sneak our way past everyone? I could just as easily sprout wings.” Jaskier groans, looking into those warm, hearth-gold eyes. “Come on, Geralt. Haven’t you kept me waiting long enough?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, as if he’s considering, and then his grin widens and he reaches under Jaskier’s thighs, wrapping them around his waist in one battle-trained motion. 

Jaskier would have fallen over backward and knocked his skull on the ground if not for Geralt cupping his head in one hand in the next instant. Geralt lowers them both carefully. He whips off his pauldrons, making a makeshift cushion for Jaskier’s head.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. He can feel Geralt, pushing against him through their trousers, and he’s so turned on he can hardly see. 

Geralt swears under his breath, caressing Jaskier’s cheek like he’s never truly seen him before.

“You are so beautiful.” 

“Get _on_ with it.” Jaskier goes for Geralt’s laces with a huff, but his face is very warm. 

“Brat,” Geralt says fondly as he works his own trousers down, which definitely should _not_ make Jaskier even harder. “Gonna take my time next time.” 

“Oka- _ay.”_ Jaskier mouth hangs open as he takes in the size of Geralt, hard. It is _quite_ a size to be well, taking in, and his mind is suddenly blank with white-hot want. He hardly registers Geralt’s hot mouth on his throat again, as he lifts Jaskier one-armed to remove his clothes and lay him carefully atop them, so his bare arse isn’t on the soil. It’s so simple and _considerate_ , Jaskier had been fully sure he’d been about to get fucked into the mud, and he captures Geralt’s mouth in another kiss when he comes slightly back to his senses. 

“You want my cock, bard?” Geralt smirks into his mouth. He palms Jaskier’s length, smears precome between his fingers and groans with arousal. Jaskier _melts._ That hand, that familiar hand, strong and calloused and powerful and on him at _last_. “I think you do.” 

“Fucking— _please!”_ Jaskier manages, and to his credit Geralt, for once, doesn’t keep teasing. 

He fumbles in his pack and produces a small, sweet-smelling vial. He wastes no time getting one, two, three of his thick fingers slick, Jaskier pulling his own thighs back as he does, then he flashes Jaskier a grin, and touches the first to his entrance.

“Mm,” Geralt hums approvingly, circling him slowly with a fingertip as Jaskier loses his mind. “Pretty.” And then he presses in, and Jaskier cries out. 

_“More_ —fucking— _gods,_ Geralt!” 

Geralt sinks his finger in all the way and Jaskier rests his ankles on Geralt’s shoulders so he can busy his hands about grasping for as much of Geralt as he can reach, his hard thighs, his muscled forearm, his cheek. Geralt touches a second finger to him and Jaskier nods feverishly.

Geralt pushes inside and it feels like—like a _relief._ The hot, bright sensation floods Jaskier’s entire body, and then Geralt starts to flex, to _rub_ , and there’s that brief flash of shame Jaskier’s used to when he gets fucked like this, but it vanishes immediately not just when Geralt rubs right _there,_ but as he caresses Jaskier’s bare hips, presses a kiss to his calf, makes a sound in his throat Jaskier’s never heard him make before, something like a purr, and there’s no more shame, just a heady rough rush of love and relief. It’s happening, it’s _happening,_ and Geralt loves him, and Geralt wants him, just like this.

Jaskier rocks against him, riding those fingers, and Geralt moves with him, responsive, attentive.

“Another,” Jaskier manages, and he swears as what feel like actual stars erupt behind his eyes as Geralt complies, he’s so _open_ now, spread wide and slick-wet and there’s Geralt, here for him. For _him._ All, all, _all_ for him. 

“Is it good?” Geralt rasps. “Is it—is it okay?”

No one’s ever _asked_ like this, no one’s ever watched Jaskier like this, Jaskier can feel that each and every one of Geralt’s senses is sharply attuned to him, and he feels _seen,_ cared for, tended to, oh—

“Better than paradise,” Jaskier breathes, “and that’s a cliché but fuck it, _fuck_ it, it does, I’ve never—fuck, not like this, you’re incredible, it’s _perfect,_ Geralt—come on, come on, I’m ready.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs, considering, and continues the rhythm of his fingers, though he quickens a bit.

Jaskier swears, panting.

“I want you so _badly,_ Geralt, _please_ —”

“You were just abducted and unconscious,” Geralt points out, massaging that spot inside him. “You can’t blame me for taking it slow. I’m not about to concuss you.”

“You _healed_ me, I can’t even feel it anymore.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, warningly, doubtfully, and that’s a very familiar tone indeed. That’s the tone that means Geralt thinks Jaskier’s forging ahead without thinking, in a way that will certainly get him into trouble and require saving. 

And that is just bollocks.

“I’m not going to break _,_ come _on.”_ Jaskier bears down harder, tilts his head. He registers through his haze that this is potentially uncomfortable territory, but it’s got to be tread. “You know I’m not exactly a blushing virgin, right? It’s not going to be my first time with a cock in my arse.” 

A flash of jealousy darkens Geralt’s face, but perhaps he recognizes the hypocrisy, and it sinks back into concern...and what Jaskier easily recognizes as self-doubt. Something clicks. 

“You’re not going to hurt me.” His tone softens, love blossoming in his chest as the depth of the truth of his words settles between them both. He runs his thumb along the stubble on Geralt’s jaw. “I know you won’t. You’re not a monster I need saving from. I love you. _Gods,_ that feels good to say. I love you, and I want you.” He smiles. “I trust you.”

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes, his chest heaving, his hard cock dripping. Jaskier lets out a whimper as Geralt pulls his fingers away and kisses him rough and deep. “Fine. You tell me if it’s too much.” 

“‘Course I will, now come on, give it to me.” Jaskier’s mouth is practically watering. The world feels sharp and surreal, and also the realest it’s ever felt, everything bright and hot and _present._ “Fuck me like you mean it.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt strokes oil over himself, his free hand holding Jaskier’s thigh back. He looks at Jaskier’s empty hole and bites his lip, moaning, and Jaskier feels like he’s on fire in the best way. “I mean it,” he says, and enters.

Jaskier _sobs._

“It’s so good, fuck, that’s— _wow,_ Geralt, oh, oh, _yes—”_

He’s babbling, he knows, but he can’t help it, Geralt’s huge but it doesn’t even feel like an intrusion, he’s so slick and open and Geralt knows exactly what he’s doing, tuned to every sign of Jaskier’s body. 

“I’ve got you,” Geralt murmurs. His voice is rough but tender, his hands heavy and gentle on Jaskier’s hips, and he’s _inside._ Every inch of him splits Jaskier open in the very best way, every withdraw feels like Jaskier’s losing something and every thrust in feels like a _gift._ It is somehow even better than Jaskier’s wildest imaginings, and Jaskier never, ever wants it to stop. 

Geralt moves to cup Jaskier’s arse in his palms, lifting him off the ground like it’s nothing, and drives in at a deeper angle that sparks waves of pleasure straight through Jaskier’s very spine.

“Does it bother you, my feet in your face?” Jaskier manages, breathless, registering dimly that with his ankles hooked over Geralt’s enormous shoulders, he’s nearly kicking Geralt in the ear with every movement. “You could always turn me over, if that’s better for you—”

“Doesn’t bother me. You can turn over if you’d be more comfortable.” Geralt squeezes his thigh warmly. “I’d rather keep looking at you, though.”

“Oh.” Jaskier tries and fails to bite back a pleased grin before remembering he doesn’t have to. “Oh, good, then. I’d rather keep looking at you too.”

And then Geralt smiles too, dimpling and broad, demonstrative and beautiful. His nostrils flare with effort and his cock throbs, and Jaskier is overcome with the unimaginable, unbearably excellent truth that Geralt’s enjoying this just as much as he is.

Jaskier’s always loved sex. It’s fun and sweaty and feels good, and he’s good at it, likes feeling good at it. He gets to be earnest and he gets to make other people happy, and he gets to play the part of the hero. Sex usually feels fantastic. He’s always thought he’s half in love with everyone he fucks, but as Geralt moves inside him, he realizes he was probably right.

_Half._

Because this.

This nearly feels like another act altogether. 

He feels _held._ He feels held, and healed, and _safe._ How many times have they been in the woods together? How many years in campsites has Jaskier wanted exactly this? Geralt moves within him, coaxing the sweetest, most blissful pleasure from his body, easing it, drawing it out, satisfyingly rough but somehow immeasurably tender, and the air is cool and bright, the sky above is dotted with fat clouds, and the birds rustle in the ancient trees and from within the haven of Geralt’s body, nothing, _nothing_ in Jaskier’s life has ever felt this good, this true, this right.

Geralt’s mouth falls open and his pace quickens and Jaskier hisses, arching his back.

“Look at you.” Has his voice ever sounded this broken? He likes it. Geralt’s all muscle and power and inhumanly heightened senses, and he’s using everything he is _just_ to bring Jaskier pleasure. “Fuck. You’re like a storybook hero, you know that?”

Geralt grunts a laugh, giving his hips a particular snap that makes Jaskier gasp, flinging his arms up above his head to dig his nails into whatever clothes he can reach.

“Only because you made me one, bard.”

But Jaskier’s already shaking his head, or at least lolling it side to side as Geralt fucks him fucking _boneless._

“Never exaggerate. Not about _you,”_ he says meaningfully, as Geralt understandably laughs at that. “You’re handsome, and strong, and _good._ So, _so_ good.”

Geralt smirks.

“Fucked you stupid, have I?”

“Shut up,” Jaskier grins. He’s so hard he can hardly take it, can feel himself careening toward the brink. “Saved the day about a thousand times, haven’t you? Saved _me_ a thousand times more, look at today—”

“You shut up,” Geralt growls, but he’s pink in the cheeks, and Jaskier’s smile broadens.

“I won’t,” he pants, “I won’t, I _won’t,_ because you are _fucking_ wonderful and I’ve been writing you how I see you for _years_ but I’m going to tell you plain to your face every damn day now—”

Geralt is even pinker now, which is _marvelous,_ and beaming, which is even better. 

“Idiot,” Geralt murmurs, with so much love in his voice Jaskier can _taste_ it. “Wasn’t any of that until you. Not really. You’re the hero of the story, Jask. You’re _good. Actually_ good. And you make me better. Wish it hadn’t taken me so long to notice. But we’re here now.” Geralt bends to nudge a kiss against Jaskier’s jaw, which also serves to push him in so deep Jaskier feels alit with it, remade by it. “And I am _not_ going to lose you again.”

“Oh.” Jaskier stares at him through hooded eyes, suddenly lost for words. “Oh, _Geralt.”_

“Love you,” Geralt says softly, and wraps his hand around Jaskier’s cock.

It’s a sharp, singing storm of sensation, flooding Jaskier’s entire being with an overload of pleasure. The fucking _sight alone_ of Geralt reaching down to jerk him off, much less while fucking him out of his fucking _mind—_ and Geralt knows what he’s doing with his hand, too. He doesn’t just know how to work his own cock, he strokes Jaskier’s expertly, gentle but firm, twisting his wrist in time with his thrusts.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier says hoarsely, “don’t—don’t _ever_ stop—”

Geralt chuckles, squeezing Jaskier’s hip with his free hand, keeping Jaskier where he wants him to stay. 

“Wish I never had to,” Geralt murmurs, rubbing a calloused thumb over Jaskier’s soaked slit as he thrusts deep inside him. Jaskier twitches, his breath coming quick and short. “You look so good, Jask. Guess I’ll just have to have you like this again.”

“You’d _fucking_ better,” Jaskier snaps, and then he’s laughing, he’s _laughing,_ because Geralt _will,_ and Geralt loves him and he says it now, and he’s not going to stop, and suddenly the future seems brighter than it ever has, and it feels so fucking _stupidly_ good Jaskier can’t even think of poetry for it, can’t think of anything but that sweet drag and hard snap of Geralt’s cock inside him, the sure warmth of his hand. Maybe Geralt really _has_ fucked his brains out, which he’d be mildly concerned about if he wasn’t sure he didn’t have a fucking epic saga in him for just how in love he is with this maddening, magnificent man—and then he’s coming, Geralt’s cock in him and Geralt’s hand on him and Geralt’s name on his mouth, he’s coming harder than he ever has, and it feels dagger-sharp and brilliant and as indescribable and magic as the miracle of daybreak, not least because it does, it does feel like something new is arriving, at last.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, when he can speak again. “Um. _Wow.”_

Geralt’s not laughing anymore, his expression is hot and intense as he shifts his still-hard dick out of Jaskier’s body.

“Come here,” he mumbles, scrambling forward somewhat unsteadily to wrap Jaskier in something of an awkward, wonderful, full-bodied hug right there on the ground, not seeming to care that he’s getting Jaskier’s come all over him. He buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder, kissing him, breathing him in. “I love you,” he says, like he can’t stop himself. He’s rocking on his knees, straddling Jaskier’s waist, his wet erection dragging through the mess on Jaskier’s stomach.

“I love you,” Jaskier tells him, and he’s not laughing now either. They hold each other, petting, nuzzling, for an interminable, blissful moment. He tangles his hands in Geralt’s hair, pulls him into a proper kiss. “Oh, Geralt. I love you.” 

“Mm,” Geralt hums, low and beautifully contented into his mouth. “And—that was okay?”

Jaskier does laugh again, at that, feeling very giddy, spent in the very best way.

“You’re joking,” he murmurs, tracing his knuckle across the planes of Geralt’s earnest face. “I’m going to want that every day, you know.” 

“Good,” Geralt growls, nipping lightly at his finger, but Jaskier can hear the relief in it—and the restraint.

He raises an eyebrow, glancing between them.

“We’re not done yet, I think you know.”

Geralt makes a non-committal sound.

“Don’t worry about me—”

“You _are_ joking,” Jaskier says incredulously. “Look, if I can’t have you come inside me right now, I want you to come all over me.”

“What.” Geralt tries _valiantly_ to look skeptical, but Jaskier can feel his cock twitch between them, and he doesn’t need witcher senses to appreciate how much Geralt likes the idea.

“Mark me,” he murmurs. He takes Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth, tugs gently. Geralt growls again, low and dangerous in his throat. Jaskier’s soft dick gives a weak throb and he valiantly wishes he could get hard again, but hey, there _is_ always tomorrow, and this is nearly as good. He reaches for Geralt’s slick cock and gives it a few teasing strokes, thrilled with how warm it is from his own body. “Make me yours, love, go on.” 

“Aren’t you already?” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier can’t argue with that. He flashes a grin before giving a theatrical shrug.

“Fine. You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Jaskier sighs dramatically. “I was just thinking how badly I wanted to watch you jerk off that phenomenal cock of yours, feel you come hot all over me...how I want to taste you on my tongue, want you to spill over my chest and my stomach and my arse, how I want you to come on my hole and fuck it back inside me, but if you’d rather not…” he lilts off, singsong, his spent body surging almost painfully toward arousal again at his own words, and Geralt looks something like awestruck. It is _very_ sexy. One of his sexiest looks. Jaskier will have to make a catalogue and add this to it.

“You—you’re sure?” 

Jaskier opens his mouth and presents his tongue. 

Geralt sits back on his heels and grabs his cock, cursing spectacularly. This positions his sculpted arse to rub right up against Jaskier’s now decidedly interested dick, and Jaskier stretches out, enjoying the view.

Oh, and what a view it is. The great White Wolf, disheveled and pink in patches from Jaskier’s mouth, brought to his knees, stroking himself with his jaw slack and his eyes raking hungrily over Jaskier’s body. 

Jaskier props himself up on his elbows and watches the flare of Geralt’s nostrils, the huff of his breath, the spasm of muscle in his bicep and shoulder, marveling that he gets to be here, to see it—no, to _cause_ it. Geralt moves his free hand jerkily over Jaskier’s cheek, the hollow of his throat, the down of hair on chest, and his pace quickens. 

Jaskier moves into his touch like a flower to the sun, his body thrumming with arousal again; it hasn’t recovered so quickly since he was a younger man, but he can’t help it, and when Geralt rubs the pad of his thick thumb over Jaskier’s offered tongue, he moans weakly, lapping at it on instinct. His gaze meets Geralt’s as he licks at him, grinding up against him almost helplessly.

“Fucking _gods,_ Jaskier. How does _everything_ with you feel this good?” Geralt groans, rocking the cleft of his arse along Jaskier’s hard length. “And—are you—?”

Jaskier nods as best as he can around Geralt’s thumb, his arms hardly capable of holding him up anymore.

“Fuck,” Geralt hisses, and tugs Jaskier into a rough kiss. He’s close, Jaskier can tell, registering it through a half-overwhelmed haze of reignited arousal and pride. 

“Please,” Jaskier whispers, and opens his mouth again. 

Geralt lets out a broken sound and pulls back, stroking himself hard, and then come stripes across Jaskier’s chest and mouth and he moans wantonly, eyes slamming shut, intoxicated at the sensation, the sounds Geralt makes, the fucking smell of it. He savors the taste on his tongue, grinning open-mouthed. Geralt only lets two pulses of his orgasm paint Jaskier’s body before he seizes Jaskier’s thighs, pushing them back to spill come thick over Jaskier’s hole. 

Jaskier gasps a lewd noise he prays comes across as assent, and thankfully Geralt takes it as such because he ploughs his pulsing cock back inside, thrusting rough and hard and desperate as he fills Jaskier up. Jaskier reaches for his own erection but Geralt bats his hand away, grabbing it himself, and he must understand how sensitive Jaskier is because even as he fucks him in deep, filthy, come-soaked strokes, his grip is gentler as he coaxes Jaskier carefully to his second, powerful orgasm. 

Jaskier _keens,_ shuddering, twitching, it’s so _much,_ Geralt’s throbbing cock inside him, come filling him and flooding him, Geralt’s attentive hand stroking him through it. It teeters on the edge of too much but never once crosses over, and that border of trust and love and encompassing sensation makes his pleasure seem to fill more of him than he is, like there’s no part of his body or soul that isn’t set alight with the ecstasy Geralt gives him. It goes on and on, wringing him out, a catharsis that burrows deeper than body.

“I’m yours,” he can’t help but say, repeating it like a refrain, like a prayer, and Geralt actually fucking sobs in his ear, raw and wordless, “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m _yours.”_

When they still at last, Geralt carefully releases him, pulls out, and Jaskier keeps saying it.

“And I want to be,” he says, clutching Geralt close. “I always have.” He gives a spent, shuddering, contented sigh. “Always will.”

Geralt sinks on top of him, and it’s even messier and stickier now, especially as the warmth of midday has cooled into dusk, but it’s somehow no less tender, no less romantic.

“I hope you know,” Geralt murmurs into his cheek, “I’m yours, too.”

Jaskier shakes his head, shivering slightly. He caresses the scarred curves of Geralt’s back.

“How can a person hold this much joy?” he marvels softly. “Always thought I was a relatively happy person. But nothing compares to _this.”_ He breathes in Geralt’s scent, feels the drum of Geralt’s heartbeat against his own chest. “I don’t think I can describe it. Feels like—like trying to describe the shape of dawn. Too much, too wild and brilliant and full to put into words.”

Geralt hums, nuzzling into him.

“But you just did.”

“What?”

“Put it into words.” He pushes himself up to look Jaskier in the eye, and Jaskier recognizes, with a warm rush, the mirror of his own sated longing there. “Trying to describe the shape of dawn. That’s exactly it, how you make me feel.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says in a small voice, “oh, _oh,”_ and then he busies his mouth with better occupations than stammering.

* * *

It’s decidedly near nightfall, when they disentangle themselves and stand at last. They’re covered in each other’s cold stains, and their crumpled clothes are a disaster.

“I _can’t_ put my doublet over this!” Jaskier looks down at the mess on his chest, aghast. “The trousers, all right, but I’d never get the smell out of the silk—”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“Wear my shirt,” he says, holding it out, and Jaskier’s stomach swoops pleasantly.

“Okay,” he says at once, pulling it on. “Er. Not that this has been a fantasy of mine for over a decade or anything _—mmm.”_ He buries his face in the fabric. “Oh, that smells _good._ Like you.” 

“Hm,” Geralt chuckles, and tugs Jaskier into another embrace, so Jaskier can smell him right from the source. He loses himself in this for several moments, nuzzling into Geralt’s throat, running his hands over those strong muscles that had just been at work bringing him the most exquisite pleasure.

“Wait.” Jaskier pulls back. “So...we’ll show up at the keep with you shirtless and me in your shirt? Smelling like each other? And it’s not like you look—er—” he gestures at Geralt’s thoroughly sex-swept hair. “We’re going to be _impossibly_ obvious.”

Geralt’s face lights into a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. He takes Jaskier’s hand, and sets off for the castle.

* * *

They don’t actually end up running into anyone on their way back to Geralt’s room. They sink into the bath together, lavishing in the heat and each other’s bodies. They _are_ late to dinner, though, and that’s where the teasing comes in. It’s only the best-natured sort, and Geralt throws a few _shut ups,_ but no one does, and Geralt stops bothering. He can’t stop smiling at Jaskier all night, ends up nearly incapable of letting _go_ of his hand, which is not very convenient when it comes to eating, but Jaskier makes it work.

* * *

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier is waking up.

He’s in a bed, in Kaer Morhen, and he’s not in his own room. 

(He never, in fact, sleeps in his own room again.)

“Jask.”

Mm, he knows that voice. Knows it better than nearly anything. That’s good. 

That’s very, very good.

“Oh!”

Jaskier opens his eyes just in time to see Geralt smiling gently at him as he pulls away from the kiss he’s just brushed on Jaskier’s mouth. Their bare limbs tangle beneath the blankets, and the daybreak washes the entire room in warm gold. 

“What was that for?” Jaskier asks softly, running his thumb over Geralt’s lower lip.

“Had to make sure you knew I love you,” Geralt murmurs, kissing it, “first thing when you woke up.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hums, his eyes very bright. His arms go around Geralt’s shoulders, and he leans up for a proper kiss. “I do remember. And I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> i am stuck being just a mess of these two. i need them to communicate! ...and other stuff! 
> 
> i only watched the show, so i apologize if anything is off! thank you so, so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed!! <3
> 
> edit: you can now find me on tumblr @ [welcomemysentence](https://welcomemysentence.tumblr.com/)


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